


Is there anything you need?

by Fantony



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Caring, Depressed Sherlock, Holmes Brothers, Johnlock Fluff, M/M, Mycroft Being a Good Brother, Mycroft Feels, Protective Mycroft, Sherlock Holmes Returns after Reichenbach
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-10
Updated: 2014-03-10
Packaged: 2018-01-15 07:40:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,795
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1296844
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Fantony/pseuds/Fantony
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"John." His voice is barely a whisper. Mycroft freezes. Was it Sherlock? Was it the wind against the window? "Did you say something?" "JOHN! FOR GOD'S SAKE! I NEED JOHN!" Sherlock has returned. John feels so betrayed he refuses to talk to him. The detective slowly falls apart and Mycroft is more than worried. Slight Sherlock/John slash, bit emotional Mycroft. ONE SHOT.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Is there anything you need?

**Author's Note:**

> Please keep in mind that I'm French, hence the English mistakes! ;)  
> Also note that I changed 1854 (Sherlock's original year of birth) to 1976 (Benedict's year of birth)

"See, he's been like that since he moved back here. Doesn't talk. Never leaves the sofa. I'm not even sure he eats, or sleeps at all. The poor thing... I'll make you some tea," she says, forcing a smile on her face.

"Thank you, Mrs Hudson."

Mycroft smiles back at her but his eyes immediately go back to his brother. Sherlock is skinnier than ever. He's got a one week beard and dark rings under his eyes. He looks like life has been sucked out of him, and if his chest wasn't moving up-and-down to his breathing rhythm, one could think he is a statue from Madame Tussauds. Sorrow overwhelms Mycroft but he tries to hide it.

"Glad to see you're still alive," he says sarcastically as he takes a seat next to Sherlock. "I've tried to call you about a hundred times just this week, you know? I've even _texted_ you!"

Sherlock doesn't even look at him. There's only one person he wants to talk to and it's certainly not Mycroft. Mycroft lets out a long sigh.

"Look at you, you're a mess. When was the last time you had something to eat?"

He doesn't know why he's wasting his time here. Sherlock won't talk and won't listen either. Minutes pass by, and the silence is only broken by Mrs Hudson bringing tea.

"I've put two sugars in yours, Sherlock. It can only do you good... You're all skin and bones, my boy!"

She then leaves and the room falls back to silent. Mycroft places his empty cup back on the saucer and glances at Sherlock's untouched cup.

"Sherlock Holmes, I swear that if you don't drink your tea, I'll make you drink it myself and you're not gonna like it."

Sherlock looks up, lets out a long sigh and finally empties his cup.

"Good boy," Mycroft says with a satisfied smile. Sherlock glares at him. "Anyway, that's all well and good and it's been very entertaining, but I've got a meeting in half an hour, so I'd better go. Is there anything you need?"

He doesn't really know why he's asking. Sherlock is not going to answer that, but it still won't prevent him from making sure that he gets something to eat. He'll have someone bring him groceries later.

"Goodbye then, Sherlock. I can't come back tomorrow. Gotta be in Dublin. But I'll be back in two days. If you change your mind... If there's anything you need... Anything. Call me." He rolls his eyes, as if he had just said the most stupid thing ever. "Text me, I mean."

He gives his brother a last look and reaches the door.

"John."

Sherlock's voice is barely a whisper. Mycroft freezes. Was it Sherlock? Was it the wind against the window? He turns around.

"Did you..." Sherlock hasn't moved an inch. "... say something?"

"JOHN! FOR GOD'S SAKE, I NEED JOHN!" the detective yells in a hysterical tone.

Mycroft sighs. More out of compassion than of exasperation.

"Sherlock... He needs time."

"IT'S BEEN THREE WEEKS!" Sherlock spits.

"And it had been three _years_..."

"He changed his number! He still had the same number last time we met, and he has changed it! He hasn't just blocked my number, I tried to text him with another phone and it didn't work, so no, he changed his number! He doesn't even want me to keep in touch! And he doesn't reply to his mails. I've tried his blog too," he says, talking very fast and barely paying attention to Mycroft anymore, "I have to find out where he works, maybe I could ask Lestrade to, no, no... I don't need him... I'll just-"

"Sherlock, stop! You're giving me a headache. You have to understand that-"

"He was the only one," Sherlock cuts him off in a cracked voice. "The only one who could stand me and the only one I could stand. He wrote on his blog that I was his best friend. But it was three years ago. He hates me now!"

He looks so desperate that it almost breaks Mycroft's heart.

"I thought you didn't need anyone. That _alone protected you_. Wasn't it what you always said?"

"That was before I met him."

"Well, you've just survived three years without him, haven't you? That means you don't really need him."

Sherlock looks at him in the eye, an expression of utter disdain on his face. His mouth twitches. Mycroft knows that face perfectly well.

"Go away."

His brother is pissed off but being pissed off is still better than being nothing at all.

"Sorry?" he asks innocently.

"Did I stutter?"

Mycroft smiles.

"I prefer you that way. See you later, brother!"

* * *

 

"Dammit Mycroft! You do realise your two gorillas created havoc at the clinic?! What am I gonna tell my boss now?! I thought I'd already told you to call me when you needed to talk to me!"

"I've been informed you had changed your number."

John shakes his head in exasperation.

"So what? You're worse than the KGB, you've got cameras all over the town, you found my new address and know where I work, but you couldn't find a bloody number?" he yells.

"Maybe I didn't search," Mycroft smiles widely and John just wants to punch him in the face. "It's about Sherlock."

"Of course, it's about Sherlock! What else do we have in common?" John snorts.

"Greyhound racing?"

John is starting to lose patience and doesn't make any effort to hide it.

"Alright, let's get straight to the point," Mycroft says, noticing his guest's irritation. "I don't know what my little brother sees in you, but it looks like he's never going to cope with your breakup."

"We're _not_ a couple. We've never been. So choose another word."

"Yeah, well, whatever. I am really worried about him, John. I visited him today, and believe me, I've never seen my brother in such a bad shape."

"Ok. Well, he should ask himself in what shape I was during all that time I thought he was dead!"

"Don't think it's been easy for him, John. If you ask me, the only thing that kept his head above the water was the prospect to see you again one day."

John realises he's never thought about what Sherlock might have felt during these three years. To be honest, he's always believed he had been the only one hurt and a sudden guilt overcomes him. Mycroft takes him out of his torpor, holding a piece of paper in front of him.

"This is yours. If you move in back with him."

John raises an inquisitive eyebrow, and then looks at the rectangular piece of paper. A cheque. A bloody cheque.

"Are you fucking kidding me?! You're offering me half a million to live with your brother?!"

Mycroft looks confused.

"I can make it one million," he tries.

Is he serious? Is he bloody serious?

"MYCROFT! Fuck you, you and your money! I don't need it!"

"What do you want, then? Tell me. Anything. John... I am..." Mycroft lets out a long sigh "... begging you. Please. John... Look, I know he's a pain but-"

"He's not a pain," John corrects.

Mycroft raises an eyebrow.

"Surely, John, you know as well as I do that Sherlock isn't your typical flatmate. You must admit he's got, let's say, some... unusual habits."

"Like what? Playing the violin at 3am? Shooting at the wall when he's bored? Keeping human body parts in the fridge? Jumping for joy when he's just heard about a horrible murder? Calling me an idiot more times than acceptable? Analyzing all my comings and goings? Yeah, and then? You know what? I miss all of this! I've been missing this for three _fucking_ years! You knew he was alive! You knew I was devastated! He knew that as well! And I don't fucking care about the damned plan you two had concocted!"

Mycroft purses his lips.

"Finished? It was _his_ plan, not mine. I just did what he asked me to, so no need to get up on your high horse, John."

"I know it was his plan. I know why he did it. I just can't accept it took him three whole years to show up and tell me the truth. That's just... inhuman... I know he has no social skills, and that's putting it mildly, but... It's just that I thought that... maybe... he cared about me... in spite of everything. I was obviously wrong. He wouldn't have let me suffer like that, otherwise."

"John..." Mycroft says softly, pinching the bridge of his nose. "Even as a child, he's always been alone and he really couldn't care less. He's always been in his own bubble and never allowed anyone in. Until... You. Not only does he tolerate you around, but he actually _enjoys_ your company. You're the only friend he's ever had! Can't you see he only smiles at you? Genuine smiles, I mean. Not the hypocrite smiles he gives everyone else, and that's including me! He even laughs with you! Within twenty-four hours, you had become closer to him than anyone else before! And for the first time in his life, he looked happy. He is alive when you're around, and he dies when you're not. I saw him, John! I saw him today and he was like a ghost! I don't know what it is with you, but you're definitely special."

"You really care about him, huh?" is all John manages to say not to break down.

"You still had doubts?"

Mycroft looks hurt and John doesn't reply.

"Whether he likes it or not, the same blood runs in our veins. I had always dreamt to have a brother. I felt so alone... I kept telling my parents that if I had a brother, I'd protect him all my life. I'd never let anything bad happen to him. I tried to imagine what he'd look like. What it would be like to be with him. I'd lend him my toys. I'd comfort him when he'd fall. And I waited for him. I waited for him for _so_ long. Then, one day, my mother told me she was pregnant. And on that January 6th 1976, you just can't imagine how happy I was when she told me it was a boy and placed him in my arms... It was the best day of my life." He pauses. "Only thing is nothing turned out like I had imagined, as you can see. Sherlock... Well, we've never got on well... And I didn't keep my promises..."

"You did," John retorts.

Mycroft scoffs.

"Yeah... Look at all he's been through..."

"You did your best, at least. Anyway, I'd better go. I need to pay a visit to someone."

Mycroft's grey eyes widen.

"Thank you, John. Really. Thank you."

John stares at him. The man's never seemed so... human. Is he on the verge of tears?

"Mycroft?"

Mycroft startles.

"Hmm?"

"You know, you're not as bad as I thought."

Mycroft chuckles.

"Can't say the same about you," he says cheerfully and John smiles back at him.

"Goodbye, Mycroft."

* * *

 

Sherlock sighs at the sound of footsteps in the stairs.

"Mrs Hudson, I told you I was ok, just leave me alone!"

His heart skips a beat when he realises the person standing in the doorway isn't his landlady.

"Hello, Sherlock."

So Mycroft was right. Something tightens in John's heart and all his resentment flies away. Sherlock is the shadow of his former self. Has he ever been so pale?

"You're only here because my dear brother must have asked you to come."

Sherlock can't tell whether he is happy or annoyed to see John. Yes, he is happy. Even if John is here because of Mycroft, and not for him, he _is_ here, in front of him, and it still feels good.

"Sherlock, remember. I had known you for less than a day when your brother practically kidnapped me and offered me quite a fair amount of money to spy on you. I was broke, and you meant nothing to me at that time. I could have easily accepted. I didn't. Do you really believe things have changed that much?"

So it wasn't Mycroft...

"But you're right, though. Mycroft asked me to meet him earlier today, " John goes on.

Of course it is Mycroft. It could only be Mycroft. What was he expecting? Stupid. _Stupid, stupid, stupid._

"He begged me to come and see you and shamelessly offered me a sum that could have allowed me to purchase that whole house and more if I came and lived with you again. He's worried about you, Sherlock. He really is. Anyway, the truth is I don't want his money. I came here on my own free will, not because he asked me to. But because it has been a nightmare to live without you thinking you were dead and buried," he pauses and bites his lower lip, "but it's even worse to live without you, knowing you're somewhere, so close... Alive."

God, what was that? It almost sounds like a declaration. What is Sherlock gonna think again? It's not like he was flirting or anything, it's just... Shit. Why does he feel that nervous? He has to focus on something else. Anything.

"I see Mrs Hudson has replaced the wallpaper. I guess the former tenants weren't that fond of Mr Yellow face. Gonna miss the former one, I had grown used to the pretty kitsch fleur de lys. Though I guess this one ain't that bad... What do we have for diner?" He makes his way to the kitchen and opens the fridge. Empty. No food, no eyes, no arms, no head... "Jesus! No wonder you're skinnier than the Olsen twins! Was it my turn or yours to go to the grocery?" he asks, a melancholic smile on his lips.

No answer. He turns around only to fall face to face with Sherlock. He startles. It sure is a strange thing to stand in front of a man you believed dead, and he's probably going to need time to get used to it but god, he had missed that face. Those blue tormented eyes. That black curly hair.

"Oh..." he mumbles.

Sherlock seems embarrassed. He's never looked that unconfident before. John frowns.

"Sherlock, you ok?"

He barely has the time to finish his question before two long arms are wrapped around his shoulders.

Sherlock. Is. Hugging. Him.

He's never seen Sherlock hug anyone before. Well, he's actually never seen him get into any physical contact except with Irene Adler. Still, he wasn't the one who had taken the initiative.

Sherlock. Is. Hugging. Him.

Is this for real? What is he supposed to do? What should he say? His head is buried in Sherlock's neck and he feels ridiculously small. No one should be that tall. And yet that big guy feels so fragile right now that it seems he might fall into a million pieces anytime.

Sherlock rests his head on John's shoulder, and that's when the latter feels something warm against his skin. Something warm, and wet. Tears. Oh, dear God... Sherlock is crying. His shoulders are shaking with sobs. His whole body is shaking, actually. He is crying. Just like the day he... Well, just like that day. He'd like to tell him that it's gonna be ok. He'd like to tell him he'll never let anyone hurt him anymore like Moriarty did, that he'll never let him go again, that they'll never, ever be apart anymore... but he's never been really good at comforting people, has he?

"Oh, come on, now! Please, Sherlock! If Mrs Hudson barges in, she'll definitely think I won't need the room upstairs this time!"

Humour is the politeness of despair, they say.

Sherlock laughs. He is laughing. And he is crying. At the same time. Just like the day he... Well, just like that day. Except the tears have got a very different taste this time, and the laugh is heartfelt. He tightens his grip around John, nearly preventing him from breathing. Why does it feel so good when he's always despised physical contact?

"I've missed you, John. I've missed you so much!"

Not as much as I've missed you, John thinks. He has to fight the tears. What would they look like otherwise? Two grown-up men, crying in each other's arms... Dammit, three years! Without thinking, he wraps his own arms around Sherlock's thin frame.

"I'm sorry," Sherlock whispers.

_Stay. Please, John. Stay..._

And there, against the thin fabric of Sherlock's one-size too small purple shirt, John's mouth slowly curls into a smile.

"You'd better be," the doctor mutters fondly.

_Forever, Sherlock..._

* * *

 

**Originally written on May.18 2013.**

**Thanks for reading!**


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